


Call Back

by purple_bookcover



Series: Olympics 2021 [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Background Relationships, Daddy Kink, Dildos, Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29203536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_bookcover/pseuds/purple_bookcover
Summary: Adulthood is lonely. Horribly lonely. Kuroo longs for the days when he hung out with his high school volleyball team friends. Or even for college when he'd get to go to parties and events. Now, he's just alone most of the time. In desperation, he calls a phone sex hotline...Kenma is an up and coming pro gamer. He's good, but he doesn't yet have the audience and fame required to sustain himself on gaming alone. Luckily, there's a phone sex hotline for "niche" customers who could use a voice like his. One night, he gets a call...
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Series: Olympics 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2205648
Comments: 73
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroo is lonely. Horribly lonely. One night, in desperation, he calls up a phone sex hotline. "Male. A little mean. And I want him to call me daddy."
> 
> He never expects the voice he hears on the other end of the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the other half of "[Greatest Decoy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25340056/chapters/61440547)," my KageHina longfic! If you haven't read that, you don't have to. This fic will contain spoilers for it and vice versa, but both fics can be enjoyed independently of each other. 
> 
> If you _have_ read that fic, I hope this one will satisfy your curiosity about how Kuroo and Kenma got together, what was going on in that locker room, and exactly what the hell happened in the bathroom that one time.
> 
> Tags will update as we go! 
> 
> **This fic has spoilers for the end of the Haikyuu manga, especially issues 401/402.**

Kuroo paces back and forth across his apartment, wearing a track into the carpet. He stares at his phone, looks away, glances back down. 

He stops, sighing at himself, and lowers the hand holding up his phone. The light from the device is bright in the dark of his quiet apartment. The glass sliding door leading out to the balcony reveals inky night sky and a paint splattering of stars struggling through the artificial light of the city. Even at this late hour, cars crawl by. A boy walks his bike home. A cat sits atop a wall, tail flicking as it searches for prey. 

There’s so much life out there, so much bustle. And Kuroo can reach none of it.

It’s not like high school when they all moved in a pack. Same classes, same clubs, same friend groups. It’s not even like university, those furtive looks across a classroom, the invites to parties, the celebratory drinks after a round of exams. 

Adult life is … far lonelier than any of that.

The phone screen dims from inactivity. Kuroo taps, frantic to get it lit up again, to have even that tenuous link to another human. 

This is pathetic. Yet he stares at the numbers on the screen, finger hovering over the button that will connect him to someone’s voice. 

He shouldn’t _need_ this. He has co-workers. They go out drinking. They’re friendly. Why isn’t it enough? Why is he so... When he gets home, shucks off his suit jacket, flops down on the couch, why has that become a place he dreads, a place that’s so damn lonely he can hardly stand it? 

It’s not like he’s struggling. Far from it. He’s got an offer from the damn Japanese Olympic Team to work with them during the games. It’ll be fun. He knows most of the guys. Hinata and Atsumu and Kageyama and the rest. It’ll be the time of his life. 

But it’ll also be temporary. 

Just like everything else. Just like those nights out drinking with co-workers. Just like the parties he used to go to damn near every weekend. It’ll rush by like scenery outside a moving car, blurring into nothing but vague shapes and colors. 

The screen fades. He taps it back to life. _Just do it if you’re gonna do it!_ His finger quivers as he punches in the numbers again but he manages to get all the way to the end this time before pausing to stare at the phone number lighting up his screen. 

He sucks in a breath, like someone about to jump into a cold pool and anticipating the shock. 

Then, finally, he hits call. 

Kuroo holds the phone up, heart hammering so loudly he nearly misses the ring tone. The blood rushing past his ears muffles the sound of the call. They’ll answer any second. Maybe. Probably. They don’t ignore calls, do they? Is that even allowed? The ad said anyone could call, a real modern service with its openness to all genders and identities. At least that’s what it promised. God, Kuroo hopes it’s true. What he means to ask for … he doesn’t know if any service would even allow. 

Wait, are there services specifically for this? Should he have looked up one more … specialized? Shit, what if he read the ad wrong? What if this isn’t for him at all? He should just hang up before, before, before—

“Hello?” 

He jerks, actually jerks, like he’s been pinched. He has no idea when the person on the other end of the line picked up. They sound annoyed already. 

“Hello? Listen, you’ve got about two seconds to answer and then I’m hanging up. Damn prank calls...”

“No,” Kuroo blurts out. “No, wait.” 

“So you are there.”

“I … yes, I’m here.” 

“Well, you can call me Miss Rose, honey. And you are?” 

The woman on the other end of the phone shifts rapidly from annoyed to purring, intrigued. She must get stupid, clumsy idiots like him every day. Kuroo cringes at the thought.

“Sweetie, I can’t help you without a name first,” Miss Rose says. 

“Uh, right, sure. I’m...” Wait. He can’t use his real name, right? That would be horrific. What if someone recognizes him? 

That sounds unlikely, even in his paranoia. It would require a string of unlikely events that begins with Kuroo even calling this number and ends with someone he _knows_ working a phone sex gig. Still, an alias is a good safety measure, just in case. 

“I’m Rooster.” 

“Rooster, huh?” 

He cringes. It’s a terrible choice, but all that comes to mind when he searches desperately for a nickname or alias is the way his old high school Nekoma teammates used to refer to his hair. It is significantly tamer now, but the nickname has stuck around on the rare occasions he runs into those former teammates. 

Teammates like...

He shakes himself. No time for that old, achy wound. That’s not what he’s here for. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Rooster. That OK?” 

“Call yourself whatever you want,” Miss Rose says. “I do need a valid credit card though.” 

He rambles off the number. Miss Rose walks him through the logistics and, strangely, he finds the whole process calming. He might be booking a hotel room or ordering take out, by all appearances. It’s so aggressively ordinary that it soothes some of his jittery nerves. 

Then she says, “So, what do you like?”

“I … I’m not sure.”

“Come on, sweetie,” Miss Rose says. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what you like. It’s 700 yen a minute. You’re only wasting your own money if you don’t tell me what you’re here for.” 

“It’s kinda weird...”

“Every call we get is kinda weird,” Miss Rose says. “That’s our business. You want some girl to moan in your ear, call one of the cheap, trashy services. This here is a specialty business, so I presume you want something _special_.” 

He does. God, he does. But he’s never actually said it out loud.

Miss Rose just waits, her silence needling at Kuroo.

It comes out in a burst, like a held breath expelled all at once. “Male. A little mean. And – and I want him to call me daddy.” 

He can taste Miss Rose’s smile on the other end of the line. “Is that all? No other special requests?”

“N-no. No. That’s all,” Kuroo says. 

“Alright.” The rustle of pages flipping. Jesus, does this place use a physical log book to keep track of clients and operators? “Hm, yeah, I think I know exactly the right one for you. He’ll be right up your alley.” 

“Great. Uh, is there anything I need to...” 

“Oh no,” Miss Rose says. “We’ve got all we need. You just enjoy, Rooster.” 

And that is the precise moment when Kuroo realizes that whomever Miss Rose connects him to will call him god damn Rooster.

Fuck.

Perhaps the shame keeps him distracted because once again he almost misses the dial tone, the ringing and then, horribly, the sound of a human voice.

“Rooster, huh? Couldn’t come up with something better?”

Kuroo goes cold, standing in the middle of his dark living room. His legs tremble, boneless as he stumbles toward his couch and sinks onto the cushions. He grips a pillow in one hand to ease the fear and anticipation and horniness and humiliation all clashing in his body at once.

“Yeah and I’m sure you have some stupid name too,” Kuroo says. Anger is the safest emotion to reach for just then. 

The guy on the other end snorts a laugh. It is graceless and harsh and Kuroo’s whole chest tries to clench around it. 

“Just call me Ken.” 

“Ken? Seriously? That’s about the un-sexiest name I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, it’s the name you’re getting,” Ken says. “So, what do you want?”

“I already told Miss Rose what I want,” Kuroo says. 

“Yeah, well, I’m not Miss Rose.”

“You’re a real prick for someone who’s supposed to be providing a service, you know that?” Kuroo says. 

“Oh?” Ken says. His voice dips a little lower, a little quieter. “And what do you plan to do about that, hm, daddy? Are you angry with me already?”

Heat billows under the armpits of Kuroo’s dress shirt. He puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the coffee table so he can loosen his tie and the top buttons of his shirt. It’s embarrassing, but _god damn_ that silky, snarky voice was effective.

“Yeah, I might be,” Kuroo says. 

“Ooo scary,” Ken says, but a smile edges his words. 

Kuroo’s mind splashes a vivid sketch of this “Ken” before him. His sultry voice oozes sexual energy. He sounds hot, really hot. He sounds like the type of guy who sneers at anyone he wants in a bar and they just helplessly follow him out. 

That really makes Kuroo want to put him in his place. 

His voice is a bit lower and rougher when he responds. “You’re here to service me, aren’t you, you little whore? I’d suggest being on your best behavior. I’m your customer. You should leave me satisfied.”

“Hm, should I?” Ken says. “And what might satisfy you, daddy?”

“You could use that flippant little slut mouth for something productive, to start,” Kuroo says. God, how easy it is to slip into character with “Ken” playing right along. Kuroo’s got his whole shirt unbuttoned now, hanging loose, and the slacks are next. He tugs at his belt.

“Are you hard just imagining it?” Ken purrs. “Are you getting all hot and bothered there in your jam jams when you think of my mouth on you?” 

“I’m not wearing jam jams. I’m a businessman.”

“Ooh, important businessman,” Ken says. “I bet you sit in your meetings and board rooms all day just fantasizing about having a slut like me on your cock. You button up your dress shirt and straighten your tie and then you rub it out in the company bathroom while imagining some dirty little whore deep throating you.” 

“That’s not very nice,” Kuroo rasps. And it isn’t, but it’s got him so hard he has to unzip his pants to relieve the pressure. 

“You didn’t ask for nice, daddy,” Ken says. “You asked for me.” 

“I did,” Kuroo says. “I did ask for you.” 

“Because you’re a disgusting creep hiding in a cheap suit, soiling it every time you go home at night and touch yourself just like you’re doing right now.” 

Kuroo chews on his lip to hold back the moan that wants to squeeze free. Ken is right. Even as he teases, Kuroo frees his cock from his boxers and starts stroking. That voice drips into his ear like sweet, burning rum running down his throat, leaving his head and body light and blazing all at once. It’s pathetic how turned on he’s getting just from a voice, but Kuroo cares less and less as Ken keeps on talking, pouring filthy promises in his ears. 

“You must be so pathetic,” Ken says. “You’re calling a phone sex hotline. Are you that ugly or just that sad?” 

“Plenty of people do stuff like this.” Kuroo means to argue, means to point out that lots of people hire all manner of sex worker for all manner of reasons, but that’s not what he paid for and that’s certainly not what Ken is delivering. 

Ken. There’s something about that name. It’s so stupid. So wrong for the voice he’s hearing. That voice should belong to a river or a breeze that carries cherry blossom petals. Ken is a hard, blunt sound, an American name. And the guy on the other end of the line definitely isn’t American. 

_It’s just a nickname,_ Kuroo thinks. _You’re not god damn Rooster._

He tries to focus on the voice instead of the name, on the way it winds through his chest, picking apart knots of tension, striking hard just when he relaxes, as harsh as it is enticing. 

“What’s your boring, shitty day job, Rooster daddy?” Ken says. “How are you paying for your little slut?” 

Kuroo bites his lip so hard he tastes iron. “Marketing,” he moans.

“Marketing. Mmm, what a fancy businessman you are, Rooster. Making your little commercials for your mean corporate boss. I bet you sell watches or some shit, right?” 

“Sports,” he gasps out. All he can offer are these incomplete one-word answers as his hand pumps faster and faster, that voice quivering inside him, spurring him along with pinches and snaps. 

“Sports.” Ken snorts. “How very heterosexual. You have a dirty, dirty secret, don’t you, business daddy?” 

“Not … not really.” Kuroo can’t even begin to explain that his co-workers don’t know him that well and probably wouldn’t really care even if they did, not with the way that voice pounds with his heart beat, pumping fire into his blood. 

“I used to do sports,” Ken says. “All those tall jocks, they’re so easy. Do you want to fuck me in a locker room, daddy? Bring me to your little sports games and drag me off to the showers and fuck me so good while they’re out there playing their football or whatever stupid neanderthal shit it is?”

“V-volleyball,” Kuroo says.

“Volleyball...”

For the first time that whole night, Ken’s voice trips. It’s just a second, just a hitch of breath, the mildest stumble. That purr roughens, silky susurrations grated by sandpaper. But Kuroo hears it. It’s like an icicle stabbing through his chest, piercing the heat building up throughout his body. 

He goes on stroking himself, but now he watches his suddenly quiet phone as he does. 

“What a stupid sport,” Ken says and the anger does not sound quite as put on this time. Is that … bitterness? 

Kuroo holds his dick with less enthusiasm as a terrible thought sinks heavy into his stomach. It’s painful, this clash of desire and dread. It leaves him almost sick. He needs to either come or throw up and with each passing moment he cares less and less about which his body chooses. 

He just has to not think about it. He has to not think _that_. _Impossible, impossible, it’s impossible._ It’s a constant mantra, a prayer to whatever gods might be listening and willing to take pity on a guy just trying to jerk off in his living room out of sheer desperation. 

That alone makes it possible. It’s a cosmic comedy, a joke born of cruel, cackling fate. Why shouldn’t this turn out as disastrous as possible?

“Hey, Ken,” he says. A last gambit. A final bid for relief. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Ken snaps. “You’re just so insufferably fucking boring that I fell asleep listening to you whack your pathetic meat.” 

Good enough. 

The abuse comes back in force. Kuroo told Miss Rose “a little mean” but this is pushing that definition to its limit. 

It doesn’t really matter. It’s working. And as Ken’s promises and snarls heat and rasp, Kuroo pushes aside all other thought. 

“Mmm you really think you’re going to satisfy me with that thing, daddy?” Ken says. 

His voice is ragged as well, breathy, and that somehow makes it more beautiful. 

“Yeah,” Kuroo says. “Yeah, I do.”

“Nnn, oh, you really mean to fill me up good tonight, huh?” 

“Yeah.” 

Ken moans, a simpering whine absolutely designed to please, but Kuroo doesn’t care. He tilts his head back against the cushions and squeezes his eyes shut as he jerks on his cock in frantic pumps. 

Instantly, an image flickers before his eyes. 

It’s so clear and so rapid that he doesn’t know how he didn’t see it sooner. Bleached hair. Golden eyes. A sly, curling smile like a cat. 

“Fuck, daddy, fuck, you’re so good,” Ken whimpers. 

And now Kuroo is sure. 

The face. The voice. They wind together, color in the missing spots in each. There can be no doubt, not anymore. 

But maybe, maybe, if Kuroo doesn’t say anything. Maybe, if he buries this secret deep, deep in his chest, if he keeps this voice and this image safely tucked away in his mind, maybe he can hold onto this.

“Harder, harder, _harder_ ,” Ken says, each repetition a hot brush of breath Kuroo can nearly taste. 

Kuroo strokes himself harder as Ken moans in his ear, as that voice swims through him, as the face in his mind screws up with pleasure. 

Everything tightens up. Kuroo grunts as it rushes toward him. Ken seems to understand and the noises rise in pitch, singing out loud. 

“Kenm—mmmmm,” Kuroo moans as he comes. He just barely cuts off that name, just barely turns it into a noise rather than an actual word. But fuck, it’s a near thing. 

He flops back, exhausted and sweaty, cum on his hand. He was too nervous and stupid to get a tissue before this started, but it doesn’t matter. No one is here to see him. 

Ken is composed on the other end of the line. “Hope that was good for you, daddy.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. It was. Can I...” God, this is stupid. This is so, so stupid. “Can I call you again?” 

A beat of silence. A held breath that trembles in Kuroo’s chest. 

“Book it with Miss Rose.”

The line goes dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will _usually_ update every other Thursday. However, chapter two is coming **next week**! 
> 
> **Next Time:** Kenma knows who's on the other end of the phone, but as long as neither of them ever talk about it, ever break that pact of ignorance, it's fine. Right?
> 
> \--
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenma knows he's talking to Kuroo on the other end of the line, but if they both feign ignorance, maybe they can hang onto this a little bit longer. It doesn't help that Kenma's started touching himself during "Rooster's" calls.

“V-volleyball.”

That is the moment when Kenma knows, the moment when there’s no more room for reasonable doubt.

“Volleyball...” he says. 

The phone goes silent on both ends. That word hangs between them. They must both know by now, yet neither of them say anything. 

Kenma lowers his voices to “Ken’s” sultry, smoky tones with an effort. “What a stupid sport.”

He goes through the routine, berates Kuroo, moans in his ear. He listens for the tell-tale rasp of breath, the silence that always means the client is too busy with their own business to even care what he’s saying anymore.

But this time is different.

This time Kenma touches himself, too.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But the sound of Kuroo groaning, the scratch of his breaths, the knowledge that Kenma is causing this... It’s not that bad to indulge just once, right? It’s late and this call has gone on longer than most. He can justify making it his last of the night. 

He has his cock in hand when Kuroo grunts, obviously finishing. 

“Hope that was good for you, daddy,” Kenma says. 

God, a daddy kink. Never in all their high school years would Kenma have guessed that one. Not that it’s an unwelcome surprise. It’s an easy enough kink to play to and Kenma finds it surprisingly comfortable to slip into the habit once he gets going. 

“Yeah,” Kuroo says on the other end of the line. “Yeah it was. Can I... Can I call you again?” 

Kenma goes cold. His hand freezes on his own cock. He shivers, even as heat pools in his belly. 

Clients don’t get to ask things like this. It crosses a line, an invisible barrier that keeps this all professional and distant. Kenma doesn’t use his own phone number for any of this. It all goes through the agency. 

The official response should be a “no” or, if he’s feeling generous, “The hotline handles logistics.” One thing they told him right from the start: Don’t get attached. Don’t get personal. Provide a service and get them off the line.

But this isn’t any client. And Kenma’s feeling a little selfish.

“Book it with Miss Rose,” he says, and hangs up before he can make it worse.

He tosses his phone aside, finishing in his hand with the sound of Kuroo’s sighs still in his ears.

#

It isn’t the only time Kuroo calls. He’s always Rooster. And he always requests “Ken.” 

It becomes predictable, routine, but Kenma keeps taking the calls. 

“You don’t have to, you know,” Miss Rose says one day. “You can turn him down.”

“It’s fine,” Kenma says. 

He’s never seen this woman, never even met her in person, yet he imagines her as matronly. She’s chased off pushy clients before; he has no doubt she’d do it again. “This isn’t a trashy 1-800 number,” she always says. “This is a service.” 

Kenma doesn’t really see the difference, but if taking specialty clients with niche interests means more money, he isn’t going to complain. It helps cover the bills while his gaming career ramps up. He’s nearing the tipping point when he could quit doing this stuff and focus full-time on gaming, but he isn’t quite there yet. One bad month, one shift in gaming or viewing trends, and he could find himself in a difficult situation. 

Besides, it’s almost … fun doing this kind of thing. The men he speaks to are easy. They like getting pushed around, like hearing that they’re filthy pieces of shit. Kenma can take the day’s frustration out on his clients and they’ll pay him for the pleasure. He has no reason to quit.

Not until Kuroo.

The veneer of ignorance can’t last much longer. Already, it provides little cover, like when a movie character puts on glasses and declares it a “disguise.” They both know they’re pretending by now. 

“Seriously,” Miss Rose says, “if he’s bothering you...”

“He’s not,” Kenma says. 

“He better not be,” she says. “That Rooster guy calls a lot. Must have deep pockets if he’s spending this much on phone calls.” 

“He’s a businessman,” Kenma says. 

_Volleyball._

God damn volleyball, something Kenma assumed he’d left behind years ago. That, too, is a mere illusion. The Olympics are coming up and they’ll take place right here in Japan. There’s no way he won’t see Hinata and Kageyama and all the rest on the news every day. They’re Japan’s stars now, ready to take on the world. 

And Kuroo will be there with them.

Marketing manager. What does that even mean? Maybe he’ll be the one booking all their TV spots and interviews and magazine shoots. What does an Olympic team even need with a marketing manager? 

Whatever it is, it apparently pays. As Miss Rose said, “Rooster” is proving to have deep, deep pockets for his 700-yen-a-minute phone calls. 

“I don’t care what he is,” Miss Rose says, “as long as he can keep paying.” 

“He can,” Kenma says. 

She pauses. The weight of the silence sinks into Kenma’s stomach. “Honey, you know the rules.” 

Don’t get attached. Don’t get personal. 

“I know,” Kenma says. 

“Then you know I have to step in if this goes too far.”

“It won’t,” Kenma says. “He’s a good client. He stays on the line. He’s my best one right now so if he wants me to call him daddy and tell him he’s a moron I’ll keep doing it.” 

“As long as that’s what it is.”

“It is,” Kenma says. 

Miss Rose pauses again and Kenma dares not even breathe. Why is he so afraid of the agency taking this away? Why does the idea of losing this contact chill him to his bones? 

God, what a fool he is. He spends his days talking to Twitch streams full of people. He wakes up to dozens of pings and DMs and notifications. And he’s still here risking his livelihood to hear one voice in particular, one voice that makes him feel less alone in a way all those pings and DMs and notifications never could. 

“It is,” he says again.

Miss Rose sighs. “Alright then.” 

She hangs up, but he knows they’ll be watching this now, searching for the time “Rooster” steps over the line. Searching for the time Kenma lets him.

#

“How was your day?” 

Kenma struggles not to sigh. It’s an innocent question and the way Kuroo starts all these calls now, but it’s not a _safe_ question. Far too personal. Far too familiar. Far too attached. 

Kenma pushes back. It’s the only option he has. “You don’t care about my fucking day,” he says. “Tell me what you want.” 

“That’s not true,” Kuroo, “Rooster,” says. “I do care.”

Kenma pauses. He knows if he speaks it will be as Kenma, not “Ken,” and right now he desperately needs to be Ken. 

“Oh, it was just swell,” Kenma says. “So many dirty old men to talk to. They called me all day and I made them soil their business suits. Must have been so awkward after their lunch breaks, having to return to their nice, tidy cubicles all messy.” 

He expects a response, but Kuroo is silent on the other end of the line. Usually, this is all it takes. Usually, he’ll relent at this point and go back to being Rooster, go back to pretending. If he doesn’t...

Kenma shakes that thought aside. There’s no choice. He has to. They both have to pretend or this is over. 

And Kenma doesn’t want it to be over.

“Is that what you want too?” Kenma says, voice low and silky. “You want me to ruin your nice suit with my slutty mouth?” 

Kuroo’s breathing goes a little deeper. Kenma knows the sound by now. It’s a good sign. 

“Yeah,” Kuroo says. “Maybe. I mean... Wait. Slow down, alright?” 

“Want to take your time today, daddy? I can do that.” 

“Yes,” Kuroo says. “Yeah, that’s... Yes, I’d like to take my time today.” 

“It’s your money,” Kenma says. “If you can pay, I can stay.” 

“I can pay. Japanese Olympic Team, remember?” 

“Oh, I remember. Fancy business daddy with his fancy volleyball.” 

“Something like that.” 

Kuroo isn’t playing along, but at least he’s not fighting Kenma either. This is still salvageable. 

“Ken,” he says. “Tell me about your day. For real. Please?” 

Kenma very nearly sighs, but it’s not his money that’s getting wasted on this. Kuroo can stay as long as he wants. 

“Talked to perverts like you until 2 a.m.,” Kenma says. “Slept in. Washed the stench of filthy bastards off me.” 

“Then what?” Kuroo says. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“Black coffee at noon. I don’t fucking eat breakfast. You were probably writing quarterly reviews while I jerked off in my pajamas.” 

“You wear pajamas?” 

“I sleep naked,” Kenma says. He lets that one grate especially low, but Kuroo doesn’t bite.

“No you don’t.” 

“Close enough,” Kenma says. 

“What’s close enough?” Kuroo pushes.

“Boxers, if you really must know.” 

“OK,” Kuroo says. “What about the rest of the day?” 

Kenma lets the sigh escape at long last. Every time he tries to push the conversation in the direction it should go Kuroo just nudges it back toward this mundane shit. Miss Rose always says they shouldn’t give out personal details, even things as dull as whether they sleep naked or in boxers. This is already stepping over lines she and the agency would not be happy about. 

“Then I got fucked by my big, strong, hot boyfriend,” Kenma says. “Unlike you miserable fucks I have sex in the real world and not just over the phone.” 

“Yeah? What’s he look like?” 

Oh, this is a dangerous path, but Kenma can’t help it. “Tall,” he says. “Lean, but he’ll still kick your lazy ass, business daddy. And his eyes...”

“Yeah?”

“Pale,” Kenma says. “Pale and bright. Like a cat.” 

“Oh,” Kuroo says. 

His breathing takes on a rhythm, whispering a beat that Kenma knows intimately. Kenma’s got him, but they’re walking a tightrope. The conversation is going where it should, but it’s been led there by the one thing they both dare not name. 

“What does he do to you?” Kuroo says. 

It’s just a game, though, right? Just pretend. And they’re pretending. So what’s the harm in Kenma playing the game, in using this glitch to his advantage? His whole job is to make Kuroo come and he knows this will work. It will get them both what they want – as long as Kenma’s careful. 

“He,” Kenma starts, and the breathiness of his voice is only partly an act, “he scoops me up the moment he gets home. He carries me to the bedroom and throws me on the mattress and his hands are everywhere, everywhere all at once.” 

“And his mouth.”

“Yeah, his mouth too. He like to lick that spot at the back of my ear. He knows what it does to me. He knows I can’t resist.”

“Then lower.”

“Lower,” Kenma agrees. His fingers follow the path that his words depict. “Down my neck. Across my shoulder. Down my chest.” 

He’s glad he’s shirtless. He takes these calls in his bedroom at night, wearing nothing but boxers. That part wasn’t a lie to appease Kuroo. Usually, it just means he can go right to sleep the moment he’s done, but today it means he can touch himself, hand wandering to all the places he describes for Kuroo.

“He likes your chest, huh?” Kuroo says. 

“Yeah,” Kenma says. “Yeah, he does.” 

Kenma fondles a nipple, rubbing around it, pulling on it. 

“He likes to tease,” Kenma says. “With his tongue. With his teeth. He likes to suck so hard I gasp and—” Kenma affects just such a gasp, tugging hard enough on his own nipple to make the sound unmistakably real. 

“God, you’re so hot,” Kuroo says. 

Kenma chooses to ignore this, _needs_ to ignore this, but as he leans back against the wall and closes his eyes, the face that flashes in his mind is Kuroo’s. 

Kenma’s hand wanders down.

“Then he goes lower,” Kenma says. “Lower. Down my abdomen. He bites at my hip bones as he slides my boxers off.” 

“You’re so hard already,” Kuroo says. “Just from that. Just from m-his mouth.” 

“Just from his mouth,” Kenma agrees. 

“Are you taking off your boxers now?” Kuroo says. 

They’re already around Kenma’s knees, but he says, “Yeah. I am. Do you like that, daddy? Are you touching yourself while you think about him undressing me?” 

“I am,” Kuroo says. “Fuck, Ken. I-I want...”

“I’m so hard,” Kenma says, mostly to cut Kuroo off before he can say anything damning. “He hasn’t done more than kiss me and I’m so hard. God, I need it.” 

Kenma runs a hand over himself. Shit, he’s burning way too hot from this. It isn’t supposed to be like this, but who is he even kidding anymore? Most of his calls with Kuroo have ended like this lately.

“I’ll—”

Kenma cuts Kuroo off again. “He likes to suck on me a little. He likes to use his tongue. Not just there, everywhere he can.”

Kenma lays back on his bed, the phone left on speaker beside him. Kuroo can probably hear him shuffling around, but the rasp of sheets will only entice him. 

“I would too,” Kuroo says. “I would want to taste everything. Everything.” 

“He licks my hole,” Kenma says. It’s blunt, rushed, but Kuroo is straying again. “He licks all around it. Gets his tongue inside me first.” 

Kenma’s hand is still following his words, so that now he’s swirling a finger around his entrance. Every nerve surges to life, bright and eager. 

“You taste so good,” Kuroo says. 

“Mmm, I better,” Kenma says. “I had to wait all day after talking to dirty freaks like you. None of you can satisfy me like him. All you pathetic business daddies in your cheap suits. Nnn.” 

“Is he inside you?” 

“Yeah,” Kenma says. He wriggles a finger into himself, squirming in against heat and friction. The lube is out of reach – it’s not like he was planning on this – but it’s fine for now. 

“So tight.”

“It’s just a finger, you pervert,” Kenma says. “He doesn’t rush like you. He takes his time. Gets me so hot and ready I’m begging for it.” 

“I bet he does,” Kuroo says. “I bet he opens you up so slowly it’s like torture. I can hear you shifting around. It isn’t enough, is it?” 

“No.” It bursts out. Kenma shouldn’t say it. This relationship should be going the other direction. But it’s too much now. The need inside him boils and claws. As much as he’s tried to keep control of this conversation, he can’t deny himself much longer. 

“You should fuck yourself for me,” Kuroo says.

Kenma moans at the suggestion. Fuck, it sounds good. 

“Will you do it?” Kuroo says. “Will you fuck yourself so I can hear?” 

“Yes,” Kenma says. “Yes, daddy. I will. I’ll do it.” 

He drags his finger out, lunging for the side of his bed. The old shoebox where he keeps his toys rattles as he rifles through it, grabbing a dildo and the lube. 

Kenma knows it’s pure madness even as he sits on the bed and slicks up a thick blue dildo with realistic “features” all along its length. He uses more lube than necessary so that it squelches, a noise Kuroo hopefully hears on the other end of the line. Then Kenma reaches back, rubbing around his aching hole to get himself ready for the intrusion to come. 

“I-I’m doing it,” Kenma says. 

“Right now?” Kuroo says.

“Yeah.” Kenma sits up on his knees and angles the dildo at his ass. 

“Let me hear you,” Kuroo says. 

It’s a request easily satisfied. Kenma’s moans are barely exaggerated as he stretches himself to fit the toy inside. It burns around his hole as the head fills him. He pauses, bracing against the wall with one hand, breathing loud and heavy. 

“Fuck,” Kenma rasps.

“More,” Kuroo says. “Get it all in.” 

“Nnn.” Kenma complies, pushing the toy deeper, moaning the whole way as it grinds against his walls, leaving him stuffed to the brim by the time it’s fully sheathed inside him. “God, you’re so thick.” 

You’re.

Shit. 

It’s a mistake. A huge mistake. But they’re both barreling forward on this course now and there’s no turning back. 

“You’re so tight,” Kuroo says. “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

Kenma has to respond with a moan. He’s started moving that toy, pumping it in and out so it drags around inside him. He hunches forward, ass up, face down, so he can grab his cock with his free hand and stroke. It sends a blast of sensation through him that nearly undoes him on the spot. 

And all the while, Kuroo is still talking to him. 

“So good, baby,” Kuroo says. “You’re so good. You feel amazing. Fuck, I love being inside you.” 

“Can I come?” Kenma gasps. “Please.” 

Kuroo groans. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, come for me. Come from my cock.” 

The words dissolve to breathless rasping then, on both sides of the phone. He knows Kuroo is stroking himself while imagining this, stroking as furiously as Kenma is. He lets himself believe, just for a moment, that that toy inside him really is Kuroo, that this is real and not just a dangerous, stupid game they’re playing. 

And that’s when he comes, ass clenching around the dildo, hand stroking him through his release. 

“Ku—”

He barely catches it, barely bites off the end of that name he wishes he could moan out loud. Kenma’s only consolation is that Kuroo is moaning as well, so perhaps he didn’t hear it. 

There is only breathing in the moments that follow. Kenma eases the toy out of himself and sets it aside, but doesn’t rise from his mattress. 

“Ken?” Kuroo says eventually. His voice is soft now, tentative. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” Kenma says. “I’m here.” 

Kuroo pauses and Kenma freezes, pure fear spiking through him. The illusion is paper thin at this point, but god, he just needs Kuroo to pretend. Otherwise it’s all over. 

“Thanks,” Kuroo says. “Goodnight.” 

That’s all and as much as it should be a relief, it leaves Kenma a little hollow as well. 

“Goodnight,” he says. 

They hang up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update in two weeks!
> 
>  **Next Time:** The calls suddenly stop coming... 
> 
> \-- 
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calls stop.
> 
> Kenma and Kuroo pine, each wondering what the other might be up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a weird chapter but I like how it turned out.

Kuroo glances down at his phone, but it’s dark.

#

Kenma glances down at his phone, but it’s dark.

#

Kuroo sets his phone aside and returns to packing his suitcases. He still has one full day before he has to ship out for the Olympics. He took the time off months ago, thinking he’d want to kick back and relax before spending weeks with the team at the games. In reality, all it means is that he paces his apartment, packing and re-packing his suitcases over and over.

Does he even need any of this stuff? The team will take care of most of his expenses: Travel, lodging, meals. This is the cushiest gig he’s ever had.

The call startled the hell out of his boss. 

“Him?” she said. “You wouldn’t prefer someone with a bit more experience?”

But Coach Hibarida insisted that it had to be Kuroo handling their PR and other affairs during the Tokyo Olympics. 

“He’s one of the guys,” Coach said. “They’ll feel more at ease with him. And he knows the sport better than anyone else you could give me.”

At the time, Kuroo considered it the opportunity of a lifetime. Not only would he see old friends and acquaintances, he’d get to experience the Olympics for free. It was a dream job.

Or, well, it should have been. 

Every day, spending months holed up in some hotel watching others succeed and celebrate and party while he wrote emails sounded more miserable. He didn’t have the passion for volleyball people like Atsumu and Kageyama did; that had never been the path for him. But “marketing manager” wasn’t exactly his life’s mission either. He’d just needed a job. He liked people, had a knack for persuasion and enjoyed the idea of traveling around and seeing new things. “Business” had seemed as good a major as any with that in mind. 

Kuroo huffs and throws a T-shirt at his suitcase. God, what is he doing? Not just with his obsessive packing and re-packing, with his whole damn life? What does he _want_?

The moment he thinks it, a name springs to mind, a face. A voice. But he shakes that aside. 

His phone buzzes. Kuroo’s heart slams against his chest like it’s trying to escape. When he checks, it’s just a text from Nakamura, some guy on the support staff. 

_You available to help with some scheduling?_

He shouldn’t be. He’s not technically on the clock for the team yet. 

_Sure,_ Kuroo sends back. 

If he doesn’t do something productive with his time he’s going to lose his mind. He’s stopped with the calls, cutting himself off from “Ken” cold turkey. It can only get him in trouble, right? 

_Email on the way,_ Nakamura texts. 

Kuroo should be heading to his laptop, but he lingers in the living room with his phone in his hands. Yes, he’s cut off from “Ken,” but when he scrolls through his contacts, Kenma is still there. Is the number the same? Will it work? If he calls, will he hear the voice he’s hoping to hear? 

_Yes._ The answer springs up unbidden, prompting a new one: _Should_ he call? What would he even say? Without the smoke screen of the sex hotline between them, what will a conversation even be like?

He stares at his phone.

#

Kenma sets his phone aside and boots up his computer. He never took calls in the morning anyway. He logs on and throws up his stream. Already the chat fills with memes and emojis. 

Kenma switches on his camera and sips at his coffee. 12:05. He’s barely late. 

“Hey, Chat,” he says. 

The window explodes with waving emojis and greetings. 

Kenma launches into his routine. He barely hears himself anymore, barely needs to focus on the game to score kills. It’s automatic, just part of his morning ritual. He wishes it wasn’t. He wishes it required more of him so he couldn’t keep sneaking glances at his quiet, dark phone sitting beside him. It’s been stubbornly silent for days now. With no warning, “Rooster’s” calls simply stopped. 

Kenma misses an easy headshot. Before Chat can start moaning, he throws up his “Be Right Back” screen and jumps up from his chair. 

He leaves the phone on the desk. It’s like an anchor trying to drag him back, but Kenma pushes against the tug and makes it to his mostly empty kitchen. There’s a single plate in the sink. The only thing competing for counter space with the coffee maker is a toaster that’s not even plugged in. 

Kenma refreshes his cup, lingering in the kitchen. He needs to go back. Breaks cost viewers, which is why he almost never takes one this early in the stream. He has a big day ahead – streaming, errands, editing clips. He’s supposed to talk to some energy drink brand about a sponsorship. They’ve been rolling in lately. Combined with Rooster’s disappearance, it’s allowed Kenma to justify quitting the phone sex thing. 

Which makes it even more ridiculous that as soon as he returns to his desk he stares at his phone, willing it to ring. 

No one calls for Ken anymore. He gave all that up after Rooster stopped contacting the agency. There’s no reason it would ring. 

But it could. 

Theoretically. 

He flips it open, ignoring the stream of comments rolling by in chat.

_What’s taking so long?_

_Dude, he fell into the toilet._

_Is the stream canceled?_

Kenma turns off his monitor, shutting out the comments, and unlocks his phone. He scrolls through his contacts. Kuroo is still there. Does he still have the same number he did in high school? Kuroo changes his mind on a whim. It’s about 50/50 that Kenma will get who he’s looking for if he calls this number.

He stares at his phone.

#

Kuroo sets his phone aside. Not today. He’s got to get to those emails.

#

Kenma sets his phone aside. Not today. The chat is waiting for him.

#

Kuroo lies awake that night, staring up at his ceiling. His phone sits beside him on the mattress, dark and quiet and cold. 

He should sleep. He needs to get up early tomorrow and haul his suitcases to the train. From there, it’s right to Tokyo and the hotel. And that’ll be it. For several months, his life will be nothing but volleyball. 

He wonders if Kenma will watch the games on television. The whole country is going crazy. It’ll be broadcast everywhere. Maybe even Kenma will take a passing interest in the whole thing. Maybe he’ll see Kuroo off on the sidelines or in the stands, standing behind the team, just a smudge on the screen. Maybe he’ll wish they were there together.

Kuroo scoops up his phone. The screen glares bright in the dark bedroom. He swipes through contacts until he reaches Kenma and starts typing out a message:

_Do you wanna see the Olympics?_

No, way too blunt. 

_Hey, been a while. Guess where I’m about to be._

Come on, they both know it hasn’t been a while. The fiction was fine when they were Rooster and Ken, but they can’t pretend forever. 

Still, in a way, it _has_ been a while. Interacting as Rooster and Ken wasn’t exactly “catching up,” yet it was the most contact they’d had in years. When Kuroo graduated and went off to university, they kept in touch for a while, but eventually it just sort of … stopped. Petered out. It was Kuroo’s fault, undoubtedly. He got busy with school, with finding a job, with being an adult. Accidentally reconnecting has shown him just how severely he’s fucked this up. 

OK, so not that.

What about...

_I miss your voice._

So pathetic. Kenma’s voice is the one part of him Kuroo has been in contact with most recently.

_I miss you._

Honest, but too honest. It unlocks some dam within him and the words come gushing out.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m sorry I went to school and disappeared and didn’t even text after a while._

_How are you? Tell me everything. I want to know it all, everything I’ve missed these past years, every stupid, mundane detail._

_Can I call you? Can I see you? I’m going to the Olympics. Can you believe that? Not as a player, but I’ll be there all the same. I should be excited, but I’m lying here in the dark with my suitcases packed and all I can think about is how bad I want to call you. I’d trade the entire Olympic games for 30 minutes of your voice describing the fucking weather._

_I miss your voice. I miss you._

_I’m sorry._

#

Kenma lies awake that night, staring up at his ceiling. His phone sits beside him on the mattress, dark and quiet and cold. 

No calls for Ken this time. No calls for Ken ever again. Normally, these would be his busiest hours and suddenly he understands why. There’s a deep loneliness that settles in as the world quiets and stills around him. 

He wonders what Kuroo is doing, what dragged him away. Did he get spooked as it became harder and harder to deny that they knew who they were talking to? Maybe he’s just busy with work. He kept talking about the Olympics and having to be there with the team. Kenma laughs to himself as he imagines Kuroo ending up on television while Hinata is being interviewed or something. If he knew Kenma was watching, what would he say? 

Kenma scoops up his phone. The screen glares bright in the dark bedroom. He swipes through contacts until he reaches Kuroo and starts typing out a message.

_Are you really going to the Olympics?_

No, he can’t call him out like that from the first line.

_What’s up?_

Kenma snorts. Weak. They’re not two random acquaintances who don’t even know each other. They’ve gotten each other off more nights than not for the past two weeks. They’re way past the pleasantries by now.

Still, in a way, they are mere acquaintances. “Ken” kept everything at arm’s length. Professional. They didn’t chit chat and reminisce about old times. Those calls were all business, at least as all business as Kenma could keep them. What a way to reconnect after years apart. And it’s Kenma’s fault. He stopped texting Kuroo after he went away to school. He dove right back into video games and shut himself off from the world, including his best friend. He didn’t realize how much damage he did until accidentally reconnecting in the most unlikely of ways. 

Right, so perhaps not a simple “hello.”

What about...

_I miss your voice._

Gross. If there is one thing Kenma shouldn’t miss about Kuroo right now, it’s his voice. He’s heard it plenty of late.

_I miss you._

Yikes, maybe not. That is so blunt it threatens to break Kenma entirely. The cracks spread and words pour out.

_I’m sorry. I stopped texting you. I let you go away and just disappeared back into my own little world and didn’t try to reach out._

_Are you really going to the Olympics? That wasn’t just a character, was it? You seemed so honest on those calls. I want to know everything. For real this time._

_Could I text you more? Maybe even a call. I mean, a call as me, not as Ken. Just a regular phone call. Friends catching up. Normal friends. The Ken thing wasn’t my only gig. I play games. Like, professionally, I mean. I might even have a sponsor. It’s going kind of well. That’s why I quit. I don’t know if you tried to call the agency, but Ken isn’t there anymore. I hope you don’t think I ran away again._

_I miss your voice. I miss you._

_I’m sorry._

#

Kuroo shuts off his phone, message unsent.

#

Kenma shuts off his phone, message unsent.

#

Kuroo gets on the train the next day and arrives in Tokyo without incident. By the time he reaches the team hotel, it’s buzzing. Players loiter around the lobby, suitcases in tow. Photographers are already flitting around, getting “candid shots.” Kuroo has to shoo a couple away so the players can get their room keys in peace. 

“Kuroo!” 

Hinata bounds toward him, no less a blast of sunshine than he was when they were all kids. He’s bigger now, bigger all around. And a little more sober around the face and eyes. Still, Kageyama glowers at his back. 

Boy, those two are going to be trouble. Hardly five minutes in and already they’re back at it. Kuroo got a thorough run down; he’s aware they’re here to revive that freakish quick attack Kuroo faced so many times in high school. He isn’t quite sure they’ll pull it off though. They aren’t kids anymore and this isn’t high schoolers they’re up against. They’ll need to work damn fast to both revive that play and hone it to an Olympic level.

“Hey, Shorty,” Kuroo says. 

“Did you just get here?” Hinata says. “This place is crazy. Have you looked around?” He launches off, talking so quickly Kuroo can barely keep up. It’s still damn early in the day. Where does this guy get the energy? 

The rest of the team is far more subdued, even guys like Atsumu and Bokuto. Hinata is certainly in a league of his own when it comes to raw energy. 

Kageyama is watching him like he’s the sun itself rising over the horizon.

Well. 

That’s gonna be interesting.

Kuroo very nearly smiles to himself. Hinata slings an arm around his shoulders. 

“Selfie,” Hinata says. 

Kuroo gets about half a second to blink the sleep from his eyes and smile. He looks half-dead in the photo, but Hinata seems pleased enough about it. He meanders away, fingers flying. Perhaps Kuroo should have asked who that picture is for, but it’s probably just some of the old Karasuno guys or something. Likely, they’ll all be here to cheer on their former teammates. 

The bustle of activity sets Kuroo at ease. His phone vibrates with emails and texts from Nakamura. He’ll be neck deep in work before noon today and it probably won’t let up for the entirety of the games. 

God willing, that’ll be enough.

#

“Hey, Chat.” 

Text whizzes by in Kenma’s window. 

_actually here today?_

_lol think he’ll actually play today?_

_morning_

_hi_

_hiiiiii_

Kenma ignores them, loading his game and getting right to it. In direct contrast to yesterday, he’s on fire today, slaughtering everything in his path. Chat explodes with emojis as his kill streak climbs. 

It distracts him from the buzzing of his phone, at least until he stops for a coffee break. 

“Be right back, Chat,” he says.

_actually this time or will you just disappear again?_

_[A moderator deleted this comment]_

He switches off the monitor so he can’t see their running commentary, throws up his BRB screen and climbs out of his chair. He stretches on his way to the kitchen. He’s calmer this morning, more clear-headed. Maybe writing out that message was good for him, even if he never sent it. 

When he returns to his desk, his phone vibrates atop it. Kenma turns it over, almost afraid of what he’ll find, but what greets him is “3 Messages from Hinata Shoyo.” 

That’s right. The Olympics are getting started. Hinata is probably blitzing everyone he knows with texts at this point. 

Kenma sets aside his coffee, smiling to himself as he unlocks his phone. Chat can wait a little longer. Hinata is one of very few people Kenma has seen since high school, relentless in his insistence that they remain friends. Even when he was overseas they’d Skype once in a while to stay in touch. 

_It’s really happening!!!!_ Hinata’s first message says. 

_Holy crap, dude. This is amazing. You should see this place. They’re gonna keep us busy for sure. It’s so amazing._ A stream of emojis punctuates this one. 

The last is an image. Kenma opens it … and nearly drops his phone. 

Hinata stands in a hotel lobby, his arm slung over someone tall and lean and dark-haired, someone with light eyes like a cat. 

_Look who I found!!!_ Hinata’s message reads.

Kenma goes cold as Kuroo smiles up at him from Hinata’s phone and he realizes all at once how very easy it would be to reach him. One message – and not even to Kuroo himself. One little message. 

And then what? What is Kenma expecting? It won’t be a heartfelt reunion, not after what they’ve been doing on the phone for these past weeks. 

His chest aches. He sets down the phone and cradles his coffee in trembling hands. 

Kenma shuts down his stream without warning, pacing through his apartment. The mods can sort it out. He can’t be online today. What an idiot he is. He knew Kuroo was working for them. How did Kenma not connect these dots? How did he not see this coming?

He eyes his phone, waiting for it to buzz again. It doesn’t. Hinata’s probably busy now, swept along in practices and meetings and whatever the hell else athletes do during the Olympics. 

And what about Kuroo? What will he be doing? Answering emails? Setting up appointments? If Kenma calls right now, will he pick up? Is he settling into a quiet, empty hotel room somewhere, setting out his laptop so he can spend the day working, shutting off his phone so it can’t disturb him? Or is he alone, abandoned by the team while they bound off to their next adventure? 

Kenma picks up his phone, but not to respond to Hinata. 

He goes to the web browser and types with shaking fingers: _Tokyo train schedule._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic updates every two weeks. Next update: Thursday, March 11.
> 
>  **Next Time:** Kuroo dares try to call during the Olympics, but Kenma isn't there. What about...
> 
> \-- 
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroo tries to call during volleyball practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that in the manga Kenma owns a company and stuff, but shhhh. It's more fun if he works a phone sex hotline.

Kuroo makes the call during practice.

He doesn’t mean to make that call. He also didn’t plan to go to practice. But a morning of emails alone in his hotel room left him restless and bored enough to wander the Olympic facilities in search of Team Japan’s practice court. 

The guys are off to a fast start, of course. Hinata is leaping around like there’s springs attached to his legs. He might clear the net at this rate. 

And Kageyama is setting to him more often than not.

Kuroo smiles to himself, hidden in the hall that leads to the locker rooms. It allows him a glimpse of the courts while shadowing him from view. The team could see him if they looked, and likely no one would care that he’s here, but no one is looking for Kuroo right now. No one is looking at anything but Hinata and Kageyama.

The freak quick duo is back. That was fast. 

No matter how Hinata flies around the court, the ball is always there for him. Even Atsumu doesn’t have him quite this locked in, despite them being on the same team now. There’s a slight edge when Hinata plays with Kageyama. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it might just win the whole damn Olympics for Team Japan.

If those two don’t combust, of course.

There’s a lot more going on here than mere volleyball, but it’s not Kuroo’s business to dig into it, not yet at least. Still, he suspects it will serve as a delightful side entertainment as things go on. Even today, Hinata gets a blistering spike past Sakusa and runs to Kageyama the moment he lands, wrapping him in a hug. Kageyama goes absolutely rigid, snarling when Hinata releases him. 

Yup, definitely entertaining, but Kuroo can let that little train wreck derail itself. It won’t take much, unless his guess is way off.

All of this provides a welcome distraction, but it’s honestly nothing new and soon loses its luster. Wandering here satisfied some of his anxiety. The mere act of moving around helped a bit too. But now that prickle of discomfort is back and tickling the back of his neck. He itches, but he knows scratching won’t satisfy it. He has to make the call.

Kuroo sighs at himself as he slinks down the hall. The sounds of the practice muffle into a dull hum. He could duck into the locker rooms if he really wanted to, they gave him a key to wherever he wants to go, but Kuroo lingers in the hall with his back against a wall. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his recent calls until he sees a number he knows all too well. 

No sense delaying the inevitable, he supposes. 

He hits call and waits, heart fluttering against his chest. 

“Hi, it’s me.” 

“Well, well,” Miss Rose says. “Was wondering when you might finally give us a call again.”

“I’ve been busy,” Kuroo says.

“I’m sure, honey. I’m sure. We’re glad to hear from you.”

“Yeah, look, can we just skip ahead? I’m not interested in all the pleasantries today.”

“I’d love to,” Miss Rose says, “but Ken is gone.”

Ice washes through Kuroo. He’s silent for so long that Miss Rose says, “Hello? Rooster? You still with me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here,” Kuroo says. “What do you mean he’s gone?”

“Off to greener pastures, I’m afraid,” Miss Rose says. “He quit.”

“Why?”

“Even if I knew I couldn’t tell you that, hon,” Miss Rose says. “We keep our talents’ private lives private.” 

There’s a warning in that, but Kuroo ignores it.

“It’s such a shame,” Miss Rose goes on. “He had quite the client base. You aren’t the only one who’s called looking for him lately.”

“How long ago?” Kuroo says. “How long ago did he quit?”

“Oh, I’d say about … a week or so?” 

Shortly after Kuroo stopped calling. Why does that make him suddenly feel better about this entire situation? 

He shakes himself. “Is there … I mean, so, that’s it then? He’s just gone? Just like that?”

“Yup,” Miss Rose says. “Our talent are all free agents. They come and go as they like. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. Though, if you liked Ken, I think you’ll go wild for Juro. How about we set you up? Something new can be exciting sometimes.”

It takes Kuroo a moment to churn over her words and attach meaning to them. “No,” he says eventually. “No, that’s OK. I think I should go.”

Miss Rose sighs. “Of course.”

Kuroo doesn’t love the implications behind her exasperation, but he doesn’t bother fighting with her before getting off the line. Then he just stands there in the hall, the static of the distant practice washing over him.

Gone.

Kenma is gone.

Just like that. 

Kuroo curses himself, clutching his phone. He still has that other phone number, that much older phone number, if it even works. The thought of actually dialing it seems even more horrible now. Will Miss Rose tell him that “Rooster” was looking for him? Is she even still in contact with him? He wants to sink down into the floor at the mere thought. 

Instead, he retreats to his room. The walk back to the hotel does little to sooth Kuroo’s frazzled nerves. He spends most of the rest of the afternoon just pacing back and forth in the little room, his computer dark and forgotten. Occasionally, a new email pings, but he ignores them.

It’s evening when his phone vibrates.

Kuroo stops dead, looking at the device like it’s a snake about to bite him. Is it Kenma? Could it possibly be Kenma? Maybe he heard already and he’s texting Kuroo to tell him to stop being such a fucking creep. Maybe he hates him for chasing him for so long while wearing a disguise. Kuroo couldn’t even blame him for that. 

When he finally works up the courage to check his phone, however, it’s a text from Coach Hibarida.

_Meeting in the lobby for dinner. You’re part of the team. Come join us._

It’s an incredibly kind offer. Coach doesn’t need to treat Kuroo like one of the guys but he’s been going out of his way to do just that. And Kuroo isn’t even doing a good job for him. Shit, he probably has a dozen emails he’s ignored in favor of pacing around his room with his restless thoughts. 

He knows he can’t skip the dinner. It would be a slap in the face of all that kindness. But Kuroo isn’t exactly feeling sociable when he gets down to the lobby.

The team fills the entrance hall of the hotel, buzzing with excitement. They’re high on adrenaline and the first day of being at the Olympics. Kuroo can’t fault them, but he certainly doesn’t share their energy or enthusiasm. All the elation grates on him like sandpaper. It only reminds him that he’s alone due to his own repeated fuck ups. 

He shouldn’t take it out on Kageyama, but the guy is such an easy, blatant target and Kuroo feels so shitty that he can’t help himself. Already Kageyama is sulking around glowering at everyone – especially Hinata. That little blast of sunshine is under his skin, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes. It will only take the smallest of pushes to send Kageyama over the edge. 

The more Kuroo watches Kageyama sink into his own misery, the less he wants to be the one who gives him that push, however. Kageyama studies his feet as they team piles into vans. He doesn’t even seem to realize it when they pull up to the sushi joint. 

Kuroo nudges his shoulder. “Hey, still with us?”

Kageyama startles and glares, but doesn’t otherwise respond. He tries to slip out of the van, but Kuroo catches him by the shoulder. The poor guy is clearly all wrapped up in his own head over something. Kuroo doesn’t have the heart to make it worse when he secretly sympathizes.

“Seriously,” Kuroo says, “you OK?”

“Yes,” Kageyama says, flat and dead. 

“They’re gonna need you at your best,” Kuroo says. “If you’ve got something on your mind...” He might be insane to make an offer like this to Kageyama. Maybe Kuroo is just lonely and anxious. Maybe he’s just dumb. 

Either way, Kageyama brushes him off.

“What do you care?” he says.

Kuroo tries to shrug it away. “Bad for business,” he says. “Not a good look to have one of our star players off his game.” 

Kageyama scoffs and his face locks down. There will be no breaking through that defense. “Worry about your own job,” he snarls, stomping away.

Kuroo sighs and shakes his head. That guy is wound so tight it’s a minor miracle he can walk straight. How is someone like that so freakishly good at volleyball? 

It’s partly Hinata’s fault, Kuroo knows. Hinata breaks something down in Kageyama, as least while they’re on the court, and it makes both of them better players. 

Hopefully that’s good enough to overcome whatever’s got Kageyama high strung today, but Kuroo will probably be better off not prying. He slips into the restaurant instead, trying to be unobtrusive as he takes a seat beside Atsumu at a group of tables crowded together to accommodate the team. 

The guys are still chattering with excitement. Kuroo can follow the talk, but he can’t really contribute anything to it. He’s not out there on the court with them anymore. They treat him like one of the guys, but it’s a mere courtesy. The fact is, he’s just a business major in a halfway decent suit now. 

“Not living up to the king’s standards?” Atsumu says. 

A plate of sushi and sashimi sits before Kageyama, who stares at it like he’s never eaten in his life and doesn’t know how. The dark wood of the restaurant casts shadows that drape over Kageyama, cloaking him so he’s like a specter there beside bright, bubbly Hinata. 

Poor guy. Atsumu really shouldn’t be prodding at him, but damn, Kageyama is making it easy today. He picks at his meal, cringing away from Hinata every time the guy makes any kind of move. 

“Prefer something a little sweeter, hm?” Atsumu says.

Kageyama freezes. Kuroo nearly gapes at Atsumu, who wears a grin like a Cheshire cat. _Way to drive the knife home._ Kageyama looks like he’ll either flee or vomit any moment now. Instead, he shoves sashimi into his mouth, chewing with such raw determination it’s almost endearing to watch. 

Then Hinata ruins it.

“You like sweet sushi, Kageyama?” he says. “I never woulda guessed!”

A glow rises in Atsumu’s cheeks. Kuroo has to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from bursting out in laughter. Somehow, Hinata has reached adulthood, traveled the world, become a professional athlete – and he’s still this sweet and unassuming. 

Kageyama looks like he wants to melt into the floor. “No,” he says miserably.

“Huh? Then why...” 

Hinata looks to Kuroo and Atsumu for answers, but Kuroo just averts his eyes. He focuses on his sake instead. The players aren’t really supposed to be drinking, but the same doesn’t apply to him and hey, it’s on the team’s dime so why not indulge? This particular brand is way nicer than anything he’d get for himself normally. It’s smooth and warm, sliding down his throat like honey. It fills his belly with a pleasant heat that eases off the cold loneliness of the day. 

Perhaps that’s why he can’t help himself. 

He holds up the sake container, dangling it between his fingers. “Anyone want some? What about you, Kageyama?” 

Kageyama glares murder at him.

“We shouldn’t be drinking,” Hinata says.

“Ah, a little taste won’t hurt,” Kuroo says. 

“A little indulgence can be good for you,” Atsumu says, swinging in to help. “Might loosen you up a bit, Kageyama.” 

“No.” If Kageyama could bore through the table using only his eyes, he would.

“Oh, come on,” Kuroo says. “It’s not the end of the world to just have a taste, especially if you’ve never had this kind of sake before.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Do you actually not want it,” Kuroo says, “or do you just not want to _admit_ you want it?” 

Kageyama’s nostrils flare. He clenches his jaw so tight the muscles in it jerk. His lips are gone entirely, pressed into a bloodless line. Kuroo should probably start fearing for his life.

“I’ll try it,” Hinata says. 

God bless that little bundle of sunshine. He instantly diffuses the tension, knocking back a cup and declaring it “not bad” as Kageyama watches him in horror. 

Kuroo restrains himself from prodding anymore. It was cruel and unnecessary to poke the way he did with the sake, but he just couldn’t help it, especially not with Atsumu egging him on. Still, he catches Kageyama casting furtive glances in his direction and Kuroo knows he’s in trouble if he agitates this any further. Kageyama will sort his shit out on his own. Or he won’t. But either way it isn’t Kuroo’s problem and he shouldn’t use it as his emotional punching bag.

_Good luck, Hinata. That one’s a handful._

Kuroo (and Kageyama) survives the rest of the meal and even the trip back to the hotel. Kageyama mostly sulks and no one, not even Hinata, bothers dragging him out of it. By the time they get to the hotel, Kuroo doesn’t even care anymore. He’s exhausted from his first day here. It’s hard to believe that just this morning he was getting on a train at ass o’clock, dragging his luggage along while still half-asleep. 

Blessedly, the events of the day were enough to wear Kuroo out. And, he has to admit, dinner helped. Teasing Kageyama, laughing with Hinata, biting back snarky remarks with Atsumu – this might all be temporary, but there’s real camaraderie here, the sort Kuroo hasn’t enjoyed in a long, long time. Despite his restless heart, he might just have fun here. At least for a little while.

#

The next day, practice goes poorly.

Kuroo takes a break from his work again to watch and by the time he gets there Kageyama is stomping around snarling at himself. It’s hard to look at, frankly. Hinata tries to calm him down, Coach Hibarida tries to talk to him, but Kageyama is so wrapped up in his own head that he only makes it worse. 

For any normal player, the sets Kageyama puts up would be fine. But Kageyama isn’t a normal player and so each set is some new calamity he blames himself for. 

Kuroo cringes. Is that how he looks? Is that how he’s acting too? Is he so off, so not himself, that it’s that blazingly obvious to anyone willing to look?

No one on the team has said anything yet, but it’s only day two and already Nakamura has cleaned up a couple of his messes. An email sent to the wrong person. One missed entirely. Two different magazines scheduled for the same interview at the same time on the same day. 

Rookie mistakes, but Kuroo keeps making them. If this is only the beginning, he shudders to imagine where it ends. 

Maybe he’ll implode like Kageyama, who’s nearly trembling as the coach attempts to talk him and Hinata down and get them to focus on simpler things. 

“Just set it like you used to,” Hinata says. 

That’s probably the last thing Kageyama wants to hear.

He and Hinata get back to it, Kageyama just a half a step behind Hinata. It’s fine. Hinata still hits every spike with blistering speed. But it’s not _perfect_ and Kuroo can practically hear Kageyama’s teeth grinding with each slightly less than immaculate set. 

He turns away. He can’t watch anymore. Kuroo retreats into the halls weaving through the facility. They connect the practice courts to various locker rooms, a network running around the perimeter of the arena and under the stands. 

Kuroo isn’t quite used to them all yet, even though they technically contain offices where he could choose to work if he gets sick of his hotel room. 

He can find Team Japan’s locker rooms at least, but he passes them by, heading farther down the hall. An exit sign glares at him, but he isn’t sure if he’s ready to flee quite yet. He doesn’t want to go back and face that wall of emails. He doesn’t want to slap on a customer service voice and a phony smile. He’s not ready yet.

Instead, he leans against the wall beside the exit door and takes out his phone.

He knows what he’s looking for even before the thought reaches his brain. His fingers move for him, digging through his contacts and stopping at the obvious name: Kenma. 

Is it the right number? He still has utterly no idea. Kuroo’s number hasn’t changed, but Kenma certainly hasn’t tried to contact him at it since giving up his job as “Ken.” He probably doesn’t want to hear from Kuroo, then. That’s the clear conclusion.

So then why is Kuroo hovering over the call button? Why is his heart hammering in his ears? Why does his finger descend with some inevitable weight? 

He almost doesn’t realize he actually hit call until the screen changes. Kuroo is numb, his body vibrating with nervous energy. It’s too late now. He hit call. The message is going out over the airwaves, ringing a phone that may or may not still belong to Kenma. 

A phone rings. 

But it’s not Kuroo’s phone.

He freezes, blood, body, heart all going cold. He strains his ears, not even daring to breathe as he awaits confirmation.

A phone rings. On the other side of the exit door. 

Kuroo throws it open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update on March 25.
> 
>  **Next Time:** The locker room. If you know, you know.
> 
> \-- 
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!


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